


The Art of Change

by fishmoon



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-27
Updated: 2015-01-27
Packaged: 2018-03-09 06:58:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3240542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishmoon/pseuds/fishmoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finding that your culture has been wrong about many things is hard; Lavellan, who has always had endless questions, is faced with that reality. In Solas, she finds someone who thinks her questions and curiosity are delightful. In Lavellan, Solas finds someone <i>real</i>, and that complicates his plans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Art of Change

**Author's Note:**

> From a k!meme prompt available [here](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/12449.html?thread=48839329#t48839329)
> 
> This involves me poking with canon at a stick, and trying to piece together some of Solas' eventual plan. It also involves a lot of fluff, a good chunk of angst, and hopefully a smattering of humor. Unedited, unbeta'd, read at your own risk.

Her Keeper had long since tired of her questions: the reason she'd been sent to the Conclave was partly because they had too many potential mages in their Clan and partly because, as the Keeper said, "Perhaps her habit of asking why will do us some good and give us some peace."

 

And here she was, speaking with a spurned, formerly-Dalish mage-researcher, and all she could do was offer a weak, "My Clan does things differently."

 

Minaeve snorted. "That's good for your Clan, but can you truly say that sending a child off to live far away from any family she's known just as a traumatic thing like magic manifests is a good idea? Better than leaving her in the woods, to be sure, but not much." The challenge was clear.

 

"I don't know. I don't believe the Templars and the Circles are the answer, though. And we need to preserve our culture; what the Circles know is not our knowledge, and what we know is not theirs. They ... change everything to suit the Chantry." She'd seen enough of that, heard enough tales twisted in her brief time at the Conclave to recognize her childhood heroes turned into noble paragons of Andraste's virtues, or changed to show how barbaric the People were.

 

Minaeve's expression eased, warmed at this. "Trust that I shan't twist tales: accuracy, precision, and solid research are far more interesting to me." She paused, twisting her fingers together nervously, the warmth fleeing before discomfort. "Might I suggest, while you're here and helping, you keep a list of all the happenings? If you want this tale to be properly recorded, a primary source... might be helpful."

 

"If... you wouldn't mind sparing the paper?" After her mis-step about Dalish pride, Ellana felt a little bruised, a little tentative. "And if I could... help, sometimes?" She gestured at the books, at the research table. "I like to know why things happen, too."

 

"I doubt you'll have the time, but you may join me." Minaeve was clearly uncomfortable, still, and Ellana fled to the more familiar out-of-doors, taking a deep breath. The air hadn't become too choked with living-scents yet, but the woodsmoke was certainly leaving its marks as more soldiers joined the new-named Inquisition.

 

Hands smoothing over the unfamiliar mage-staff's carvings, she spoke briefly with the alchemist, promising to keep an eye out for his master's notes (and for some of the volatile herbs he needed) before spotting the elf who'd joined her on the headlong rush to the Rift.

 

Theories on the object that opened the Fade (she remembered nothing of how she got the mark, and that disturbed her), and it inevitably led to a discussion of the Dalish. After Minaeve's tale, Ellana's pride in being so was quietly bruised. "I wanted your opinion. You said you the Dalish you met disagreed with you on whether we were the same, and... I wanted to know why."

 

Solas pulled back slightly to look at her, and she met his gaze squarely. He blinked first, a small smile tugging at his lips, and looked away. "If you have questions, and believe the answers will help, ask."

 

Her answering smile must've taken him by surprise, because he rocked back on his heels. "That's a dangerous thing to tell me. My Keeper tired of answering 'why is it like this?'"

 

"The more fool she, then," Solas answered, and gestured for her to walk with him, gesturing as though he could draw the memories he'd seen through the Fade and into the waking world, while Ellana happily peppered him with further questions.

 

* * *

 

 

"I was sent to the Conclave because my younger brother's magic manifested," Ellana confessed to Minaeve some time later, not looking up from the shadow essence they had suspended in a solution of elfroot and a few other herbs. "If I wasn't caught, I would have gone on to meet another Clan in the Exalted Plains afterwards."

 

Minaeve was silent, though Ellana saw her hands still over the bound papers.

 

"I volunteered, you know," she continued, "a-and I miss them, but better me than little Elvion."

 

That earned her a sharper look from Minaeve, and a glance towards Ellana's face, more clinical than concerned. Her vallaslin were still dark and sharp-edged, a tell-tale of sorts, and after a moment Minaeve sighed. "And you not much past your age of majority. Don't worry. I won't tell the Seeker." She turned back to her notes. "Add two drops from the vial of deathroot essence to slate B, please, and record any color changes."

 

"Thank you," Ellana whispered.

 

* * *

 

 

Curled on a woven rug in front of the fire, Ellana gnawed on the top of her pen, borrowed from Josephine, and added a final line to her summary of today's happenings. "Being torn through the Veil by these rifts must terrify them," she mused aloud, not expecting an answer.

 

"It is a mercy to destroy them when they have become such demons, not a cruel act. And there is no human behind the rifts' opening, to twist them into a shape they are not; no malice behind the action." Solas' voice was thoughtful, though a little sad. He was sketching in his own notebook, the soft shush of charcoal upon the paper a comforting background noise. "It must be done, and you prevent more from being pulled through by closing the rifts."

 

"I'm always afraid that the demons of Pride we destroy might have been kind, once. Or at least... know things they might have told us." She received another smile over the top of his notebook for that, and Ellana sighed contentedly as he explained.

 

"While the Chantry might have you believe that there are purely malevolent or purely benevolent spirits, it is best to think more of aggressive or non-aggressive. A spirit of Command might be aggressive, but not malevolent, and certainly no demon, as they would say. But twist Command into Fury at a command denied? That would be a grave ill, indeed." His tone always took on a faint sing-song as he lectured thus, and it reminded Ellana of her Keeper, when her Keeper was not so vexed with her questions. She propped her chin on her hands, watching him as he continued to talk.

 

"People can change," she broke in, "so why can't spirits? A Spirit of Wisdom might wish to learn more, and by learning, we change; what happens in that case?"

 

Solas paused, stared at her, and laughed, the little snort at the end making her grin impishly at him. "I see, da'len, why your Keeper might have been frustrated with you. There lies the difference between people and spirits: we live in a world where we live everything, and all our experiences have emotions and memories attached to them: we are the sum of our experiences." His smile slipped away at that, and she wondered at it. "I cannot say that spirits do not have emotions, but it is not so easy as that."

 

Ellana considered, twirling the pen between her fingers. "I think I understand what you're saying. One of the Chantry's books was saying that they do not imagine and create, but I don't... think that's quite right." Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Solas start, and lean forward to listen more closely. "The Fade does not change without the help of our dreams, and so they don't get the same... stimulus as we do. It would be fascinating to meet some of them. Safely, I mean." This hasty last addition was accompanied by a look at Solas. He was staring at her in bemusement.

 

"You are not what I expected of a Dalish child." Solas recovered himself, setting aside the notebook. "I have befriended spirits in the Fade. It can be done."

 

"Oh, hahren? Do tell."

 

* * *

 

 

Years of living with the same people made the sprawling mass of Haven something wondrous and scary to Ellana. There were so many people with different experiences: she asked Commander Cullen about his past, and the Seeker about her homeland and family, and lurked in the Inn whenever Varric could be convinced to tell tales (which was often). Iron Bull's arrival brought new questions, and new information. Sera said much and revealed nothing.

 

Yet, Ellana still felt lonely, adrift in a sense: years of living with the same people had given her a fixed tapestry, with her own thread in one place. Now, she'd been deemed a loose thread, snipped off and saved for weaving into another, but not out of the scrap-basket just yet.

 

Solas seemed to understand something of this: he was more comfortable dreaming than awake, she thought, and she wondered as to his clan ("A small place far in the North" he'd said). He seemed like another loose thread, in a way. So, she shyly teased him about being an old man, an elder, and pulled him along with her. She overheard his conversations with Blackwall, of being a soldier, and wondered.

 

And when he fell in that never-to-be future, she realized that she had woven her own thread with his. With all the Inquisition.

 

* * *

 

 

She'd prayed as she'd kicked the trebuchet's release that her group had gotten far enough into the mountains to escape the avalanche. It'd been a trick worthy of Fen'Harel, she thought, keeping Corypheus talking long enough to bring his 'victory' down on his head, but while she could easily make the choice to sacrifice her own life, the others... were another matter.

 

Ellana stumbled through the mining shaft, cradling her injured arm. Dislocated shoulder, possibly broken wrist... and she knew, she knew that she'd lose herself in the chill. The first fire's ashes earned a broken sob. The second, warmer, nearly seared her fingers by the sheer contrast. She stumbled onwards, hearing shouts, including a familiar voice, and she let herself fall.

 

* * *

 

 

He tried to tell himself that it was simply fear that his power would be lost when the child died, that it would not be recoverable, and his grand plan would fall to ruin. But as the avalanche pursued him, he could only think of the brightness of her smile when she sparred with him over some point of knowledge, or the gleam of curiosity that lightened her whole face when she peppered him with questions, and imagined that being buried beneath the ice, lost and only to be visited in static repetition in the Fade.

 

They were out of potions, and even the Seeker was faltering in their headlong rush for the rest of Haven's refugees. He had seen marches like these before, exhausted and stumbling; this one would fail without a destination, and without a leader. He cast a barrier around them. "I think I see firelight over the next ridge," he said, his voice a rasp from the chill and dry air.

 

As they stumbled into camp, he looked for her in vain hope. Varric offered him a blanket and a cup of warmed water, and he hunched on a cot, trying to rearrange his plans and telling himself he did not fear a child's loss. Perhaps Corypheus had reacquired the Anchor, repowered his Orb. He shuddered to think it.

 

There was a shout from the edges of the camp, and he stood, abandoning pretense. "If that's her, she'll need elfroot and spindleweed in suspension to treat the frostbite," he called to the healers, already bolting up the ridge to where the advisors were huddled around someone.

 

He told himself that it was the relief of his plans not being upset that eased the band of panic around his chest. He knew it was a lie.

 

* * *

 

 

Even exhausted, she guarded her dreams in the Fade. It was too long instilled in her to give up, but still, she had the vague sense of something watching her within her dreams, prowling on the edges. The Dread Wolf did take advantage of weakness, after all: somewhere, she vaguely knew she was weakened. But the sense was not malicious. The presence did not threaten; instead, it seemed to prowl the edges like a ward.

 

As she slipped through the Veil of sleep, she was aware of healing magics being poured into her, and an easing of pain: her shoulder no longer ached, and her feet felt comfortably numb instead of that icy nothingness of frostbite. For all that elven feet were resistant, there were some things even the People did not risk.

 

When she opened her eyes, she saw Vivienne leaning over her instead of Solas. A sigh of disappointment escaped her, and she saw Vivienne smile knowingly. "It's best this way, my darling, and the man's been fretting himself to bits over you. Sleep once more, dear."

 

When she woke a second time, she was faced with Giselle and the remainder of the Inquisition, not Solas. When she saw him, she doubted Vivienne's words: he looked angry, frustrated, and his brusque request and explanation left her reeling. Whose orb was it, and how had it been lost? He could not, or would not, answer. We must be above suspicion to be seen as valued allies?

 

Was that a warning? He was drawing back from her, more the hahren she had teased him than the friend he had become.

 

* * *

 

 

He leaned upon his staff as she scouted the final path to Tarasyl'an Te'las. The march had been hard on all, and he had caught her quizzical looks, turning to hurt, and was not immune. But she needed to grow, and he was an old wolf who did not deserve a bright heart such as hers.

 

"Perhaps that is wise of you to keep her at arm's length." Madame de Fer, with eyes that saw too much and a mind whose discipline did not allow for the flexibility to understand what she saw, had slipped up beside him. "The more eligible she is, the more will flock beneath her banner."

 

Solas looked askance at the human mage and nodded, before following Ellana down the rocky path.

 

* * *

Ellana rubbed wearily at the base of one ear, stepping over a pile of rubble in the antechamber. Another long War Council, deciding what should be done where. Skyhold was a marvel, and thanks to long experience camping, she recognized what could be done with the space, but so did her advisors.

 

The kitchenmaids were all too pleased to brew her some tea, though their flutterings over the presence of the Inquisitor made her head throb all the more. She escaped into the rotunda, making a nest of some sacks behind a scaffolding on the ground floor, and fell asleep.

 

It was here that Solas found her, asleep on the herbs he'd gathered for pigments for his planned murals. She'd have a red smudge on her face when she woke, overlaying the vallaslin, but that was no bad thing in his opinion. The vallaslin were new, he knew, their lines not blurred or faded with age, and she was so, so young, even by modern-day estimation. He covered her with a blanket, rescued the half-empty mug of tea with a grimace, and set to sketching out the mural.

 

The lines kept on softening from harsh angles to slight curves instead, and his gaze constantly dropped to the sleeping Inquisitor, the drawing under his fingers morphing into that curve of her cheek, or the long, graceful line of her legs beneath the blanket. In some ways, he was grateful his notebooks had been lost in Haven, for they were full of such sketches.

 

All he could do was push her further away, and hope the hurt kept her from returning.

 

* * *

She'd ruined the herbs for his mural by drooling on them in her sleep, unfortunately, and all he'd done was chuckle at her and note that the Inquisitor could certainly order people to pick more, if she felt an elven apostate's art was so important. He never called her da'len any longer, and he seemed to have withdrawn even further. That chuckle had been the first hint of softening she'd seen in forever.

 

She'd despatched the Chargers to Haven to recover any goods they could, and had a quiet word with Krem, who seemed a discreet sort, to bring back anything scattered around Solas' old building. And now...

 

All Dalish were trained to recognize the use of more plants than humans did; some of that included what was good for dyes. She spotted the purple flowers of indigo on a decorative plant in Val Royeaux, and surreptitiously stripped half its leaves while Bull gave her a dryly amused look. She sneakily picked bugs off of the spiky plants in the desert, and gathered marigold when she thought no-one was looking. She snuck an order into Josephine's endless lists for binding agents and rarer pigments, and wheedled Harritt into using a different process so she could get a clearer white base.

 

If Solas wanted to paint, she would help.

 

The fact that each of the people she wrangled into her scheme gave her gently knowing looks escaped her. Even Cassandra turned back to the pells with a small smile upon her face.

 

* * *

Ellana hadn't quite realized how much she'd collected until she tried to put it all in one place. She'd acquired a small chest, and that had been filled with just the blue shades. Her quarters had plenty of chests, and she had no interest in the clothes, so after a moment's thought, she tossed all the dresses onto the too-soft bed, and arranged the pigments within. It was pretty, she thought, and... yes, she was able to lift it.

 

She was carrying it down the stairs when she nearly ran into Lady Josephine. "Oh! Inquisitor! Is that for Solas?" She didn't wait for an answer, and behind the chest, Ellana could hear her steps retreating and returning. "I have some paintbrushes I thought you could give him, too."

 

Ellana could feel her ears heating in a blush. "I... I..."

 

"Truthfully, paintings would make this place far more welcoming." Josephine was kindly diplomatic, and a part of Ellana warmed to the woman. "Good luck," Josephine added conspiratorially, setting the paintbrushes in the chest.

 

Did _everyone_ know?

 

Bewildered and embarrassed though she was, Ellana had her present ready, and she wasn't going to be deterred. As she crossed the Great Hall, Krem fell into step beside her. "Inquisitor. We rescued a few more people and cleared some of the rubble in Haven. We also found this."

 

She set down her burden to peer at the tattered notebook. One of Solas'. "Krem, you are a gem. Thank you!" Her delight made her impulsive: she hugged the mercenary as he laughed, low and rich, and patted her on the back with the notebook.

 

"Don't tell that one to the Boss, or he find the rhyme too perfect to pass up." He ruffled her hair before heading out, whistling jauntily.

 

Two extra presents. All together, or should she save them?

 

The chest of pigments was getting heavy when she finally made it to the Rotunda and set it down with a thump. Solas looked up from his desk and arched an eyebrow at her as she settled on the curved top of the chest. "May I help you?" he asked, and she flinched. Still formal.

 

"I... well." For all her indomitable focus, she was stammering now. "Here." She thrust the notebook at him. "Krem found it at Haven and I thought you would like to have it back, hahren."

 

He blinked at her, not moving. The notebook he eyed warily, and she wondered at it. She hadn't looked -- one of her friends was an artist, and hated when people looked without permission -- but she had been curious. Now, she was even moreso, but she blushed and looked down at her other hand instead.

 

"Thank you, lethallan." His voice was much nearer now, and when she looked up through her lashes, he was within arm's reach, plucking the book from her fingers. "Dare I ask why you were carrying a chest through all of Skyhold when there are plenty of burly messengers able to do that for their Inquisitor?"

 

The half-teasing prompt made her cheeks heat even more, and her heart ache: he sounded more like the Solas of Haven, her patient, teasing teacher instead of the formal semi-stranger he'd become. "It's for you," she said, getting to her feet. "I saw you sketching, and I saw some indigo, and I know how to make the pigments, so..." Ellana nudged the chest with her toe, shyly.

 

He was silent for a moment while she looked anywhere but at him. "Ir abelas, da'len, did you just say you made pigments for me?" he asked, sounding stunned. She looked back at him, gesturing mutely to the chest. He crouched to open it, rocking back on his heels when he saw the contents of the chest. The tips of his ears were pink, as were his cheeks, when he looked back up at her. "Ma serannas. This is a precious gift, and all the more treasured for having come from your hands." She fluttered those hands before her, mute from embarrassment, and he caught one in both of his, gently clasping it there.

 

"You're not angry with me?" she blurted out.

 

His brows flew up, and his mouth parted, but he seemed to catch himself. He didn't insult her by pretending not to understand. "No. No. Much has changed, little one, and I thought to give you time to grow into your role of Inquisitor without having to listen to an old man ramble." His smile was self-deprecating, blue eyes rueful.

 

"But I-" she said, then hesitated. "I don't do well alone." She took care to pitch her tone so it wouldn't carry up to Dorian, or Leliana. "And you make me less alone. You answer my questions, except lately you've seemed like it was a burden to answer."

 

He closed his eyes, chin dropping towards his chest. "That is my fault, and I am sorry; you did not deserve that." He opened his eyes, meeting her gaze as he tilted his head. "Forgive me. A thirst for knowledge should never be met with dry silence, or curt words." Ellana's heart jumped as he freed a hand and rested it upon her cheek, still smiling. "I have missed our discussions, da'len. Ask me, and I will answer if I can."

 

* * *

Haven, bright and restored, as though conjured out of the Fade. It made her heart ache; she might've saved all she could, but there were inevitable losses, both there and on the journey to Skyhold. She was still helping the Commander write letters to those who had families. It had been empty, save for Solas and herself, and he had been lighter there, smiled more easily. She'd watched as he'd flung his hand out to the Breach, mimicking her posture when sealing it, and when he'd turned back, she'd almost kissed him.

 

It hadn't been a lack of courage that'd stopped her. It had been the oddity of the situation: the Breach was closed, Haven destroyed, and yet it was here and whole again. And Solas was warm and real, where the breeze playing with the flurries of snow did not touch them. Lavellan had hesitated then, and he had told her to wake up.

 

And she'd decided to gather any information she could before confronting Solas about their shared dream. If it had been such.

 

"There was this one elf in Kirkwall," Varric was saying thoughtfully, "I didn't add it to the book -- didn't want to out the poor kid -- but he could shape the Fade like you mentioned. Huh." He kicked back in his chair, folding his hands over his stomach, just beneath where his shirt gaped.

 

"I must say, I'm glad you didn't out the poor fellow." Dorian's jaunty tones startled Lavellan, but Varric just nodded a greeting. "Rude, and a somniari'd never get any peace with your lovely Templars here."

 

She'd forged a good relationship with Dorian; he was a researcher of a different bent than her own, or Solas', and cheerfully disrespectful, but she saw herself in him: confronted with the truths of their own cultures' failings and trying to weave themselves anew. " _Somniari?_ " she echoed, giving Dorian the prompt to continue.

 

He kicked back elegantly in a chair nearby, waving his wineglass in a calculatedly-aimless gesture. "Mages who have a tighter connection to the Fade, who can control their dreams and walk in those of others. You lot seem to have let the trait die out, but our _noble bloodlines_ -" The twist on those two words was accompanied by a cultured sneer. "-still produce a few, from time to time. They're often in a bit more danger than most, with the closer tie to the Fade, so you'll often lose them early unless they've got a bit more will and focus than most." He looked at her over the rim of his wineglass. "Developing still more surprises, are we, Lavellan?"

 

That question really summed up her life. "I could do with fewer surprises, but at the same time, it's _fascinating_ ," she admitted, and was startled when Dorian burst out laughing.

 

"You've been spending too much time with Solas; that eyebrow-twitch was just like his. Now, my lovely Lavellan, as _fascinating_ as this topic is, what prompted this line of discussion?" She heard the concern underlying the flippancy, and smiled at him.

 

"Curiosity, Dorian. Don't I always ask questions?"

 

* * *

It'd been clear that Solas talked to her where he would not talk to others: he'd been open about his Fade-dreaming since the start, and she hadn't recognized its significance. Her Keeper had never spoken of this talent, and what Varric had said was not comforting.

 

"Sleep well?" The slight mischief that lurked in the corners of Solas' mouth and in the crinkle of his eyes made her own smile return despite worried thoughts. She might tease him about being an elder, but at moments like this, she wondered.

 

"It was good to see Haven whole and shining again. As much as a human-made settlement can shine," she admitted, crossing the rotunda to his desk and perching on the edge. "Certainly no crystal spires." She watched him as she said this, and saw the flash of loss again. As apology, she reached out to catch his arm, meeting his gaze with a small smile. "Thank you, though."

 

"That was not entirely me, little one; you drew Haven into the Fade as surely as I. An interesting gift," he replied with a faint chuckle. "Had you the training, you would be even more formidable than now."

 

"And you wouldn't be alone on your Fade explorations?" she teased, squeezing his arm before releasing it. She was startled by the flash of expression across his face, the brief set of his shoulders. He laughed in the next moment, though, and spun a tale of early humans and battlefield hymns.

 

The look of mingled loss and anger haunted her through the rest of the day, however.

 

* * *

Solas let his body move, whitewashing the mural wall prior to sketching out his plan upon it. It was a risk, doing these, but he respected Lavellan far too much to let her tale be recorded entirely by human hands.

 

He could still feel the light pressure of her hand upon his arm, and her suggestion...

 

Much of his knowledge was more personal, but he had seen that host of early humans in the Fade, not the flesh. To have someone share his delight in discovery, and to have that person be raised by the Dalish-- it was unexpected. Nothing about her had been as he'd expected, and he feared it would be his undoing.

 

The _idiots_ in charge of her training, though! He stabbed the broad brush against the wall as though it might erase their meddling. A dreamer with her will, strong enough to resist the dangers of the Fade, and no-one had recognized it, or if they had, they'd feared her questions, her inquisitive mind. The Dalish clung to old beliefs without understanding the why, or even the what, in most cases, and they were stagnating as a result. Revolution, rebellion: change. It was what he was.

 

She did not deserve that fate. She deserved to change with full understanding of what had gone on in the past, to choose her own path.

 

His traitorous heart whispered, _if only she chose this path, if only she were with us..._

 

He would have kissed her in their shared dream, out of the bubbling delight at her presence there, at her bright-eyed wonder at seeing Haven in that state. He would have kissed her until her face flushed and her body was pliant in his arms, until she understood that when he said he felt the whole world change because of her, it was the highest accolade he could give her.

 

He had not, and still he was alone.

 

* * *


End file.
